


The Emperor

by maitimiel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sort Of, They weren't really all that close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maitimiel/pseuds/maitimiel
Relationships: Tar-Ancalimë/Hallacar
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	The Emperor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/gifts).



The sun felt warm and comfortable on her bare skin, and for a moment Ancalimë considered falling asleep again. It would still be several hours before she was needed, _if I'm needed at all_ , and the temptation was strong to lie in bed all day, 'grieving' as a good daughter should. No one would blame her or dare disturb her if she were to do nothing the whole week, or longer. After all, a woman's heart is fragile.

_Do not bend._

She would be getting crowned in three days. Three days was the absolute minimum time needed to show respect for the deceased, her grandmother had advised. Any less, and people will think you had no feelings to spare for your father. It will do you no favours if you manage to get the public against you on your first week as queen. Be patient. 

Ancalimë wasn't known for patience. She _did_ grieve for her father. But she also had other concerns, other fears, and the public opinion didn't feature very high in her list of priorities right then. Still, she had bowed her head to Lady Almarian and made arrangements for the ceremony to happen on the fourth day after her father's departure. 

_Do not bend._

Her cousin had been one of the first to wish her his condolences, just as he had been one of the first to congratulate her on her wedding day and the birth of Anárion. Sometimes she wondered if it had been her father's love for her or his dislike of Soronto that had led him to make Ancalimë his heir. She had no doubt he would be waiting to congratulate her as soon as she had that crown on her head, just as he had been waiting all his life, for an _opportunity_. She would not give him an opportunity. She would secure her throne as soon as she conceivably could, and then she would make sure Anárion was ready to do the same, when the time came. Perhaps she could bring herself to make another son. Soronto could go on waiting. 

She released a breath, willing herself to still. She had nowhere to be, nothing she ought to be doing, so she could relax. After all, it wasn't a woman's place to be performing such rites - women were too delicate, too innocent to open death's gates. When the king dies, his daughters wish him farewell, and his sons guide him on the journey. But Tar-Aldarion had only her. 

_He could have changed the law_ , she thought. It would have been no more difficult than a number of other changes he had made in his life, and much easier than some. _He knew I couldn't do it, and he allowed it_. As with most things to do with her father, Ancalimë wasn't sure if it was meant it, or casual, if he had ever bothered to think of that. Perhaps she should have stayed with her mother's people, who she could understand. But it was too late now. She had a son and a husband and soon she would be queen. There was no going back. 

Hallacar placed his hand, gently, on her side. She was facing away from him, but she knew he was awake by the rhythm on his breathing on the back of her neck. She covered his fingers with her own, and closed her eyes to the sunrise. 

"Have you been up long?" He asked, fingers intertwining with hers, but coming no closer. _He's always so careful now_ , she thought, not a trace of the wild and daring boy who came chase her in the fields.

"Not so long," she whispered, turning to face him. She freed her hand to trace his face, so known and yet so hard to read. "I've been thinking of the future."

"There's no need to think about it now," he said, gently, "There's time."

"I know." Ancalimë let her hand fall to his shoulder, pressing her fingernails in lightly. "We have all the time in the world."

 _Good daughters and wives cry and pull their hair when their men pass_ , she thought, moving closer to her husband and sinking her fingers in his dark, soft hair. _But I was never a good daughter. It's too late to start now_. 

Hallacar sighed and pulled her on top of himself, and Ancalimë bit him with slightly more strength she normally would, right above his pulse point. It was slow and unhurried, but then again, she didn't have anywhere to be. Time seemed to melt around them, and she let her thoughts run free, a moment of truths.

He held her close to his chest after, gently caressing her stomach, and she thought again of a second child, an extra measure of security around her family. She thought of Anárion as an infant, crying day and night, and Lady Almarian's disapproval. The memory tasted bitter in her mouth. 

She extricated herself from her husband's arms, sitting on the edge of the bed. The sun is much higher in the sky now, and she can hear the servants already moving about the palace, bringing food here and taking chamber pots there. In a few hours, her father will be sailing one last time to the sea. She would be allowed to say goodbye, to see him one last time. What clothes should she wear, she wondered, that wouldn't offend anyone?

 _Do not bend_.

"I want Anárion to lead the rites," she spoke, still looking out the balcony, "He's a man of the king's blood, and he's mine, and yours. It's right," she finished, and looked behind herself where her husband still stretched on the bed, as if challenging him to disagree. His eyes were serene, but calculating. After a moment, he bowed his head softly to the side in deference and replied calmly.

"As my queen wishes."


End file.
